


you were shunned and burned your cradle

by pennysparrow



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Changelings, Don't copy to another site, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, New York City, it is! technically! no one ever says they're NOT changelings soooo...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennysparrow/pseuds/pennysparrow
Summary: Living in New York isn't easy for a boy on his own. It's worse for Crutchie between his leg and the air itself trying to poison him. But things really can only go up.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	you were shunned and burned your cradle

**Author's Note:**

> For i-got-personality on tumblr (lmk if you have ao3) as part of the Newsies Secret Santa 2020! You said you like Crutchie, canon era, and any kind of magic and well I hope that you like this!
> 
> Special thanks to Pigeon ([Carbon65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65)) for betaing and making sure the weirdness didn't get away from me.

Being a changeling in New York City hurts. It makes his skin itch and his lungs burn and his eyes water. From the iron that surrounds him, fills the very air along with the smoke. If he’s not careful when he reaches out or brushes against something his skin comes away with a sharp, searing scar.

Being a changeling hurts in a different way too. Knowing that, for whatever reason, his mother gave him up. That a human baby was far preferable to him and so he was left in some other child’s crib. To make matters worse, he was given up twice. That hurt even more.

On his crueler days, the ones filled with self-loathing, he blames himself. That it was some personal failing, his bum leg perhaps, that made his mother exchange him. That the same failing is why the woman who believed herself his mother threw him out onto the street. Logically, he knows this isn’t the case. For one, he remembers what happened to his leg and it involved an iron poker that proved to his mother he wasn’t really hers as fear burned in her eyes.

Being a changeling in New York hurts and it’s hard too. Trying to grow, to thrive, in a city that was made in opposition to your very nature. It’s even harder when you’re just a kid. When you’re living on the streets. His first few nights are the worst. He’s cold and hungry and tired and he hurts. Oh does he _hurt_.

Being a changeling is no walk in the park, though ironically walks in the park help some. Help a lot. Until he tires. But being a changeling in a city as big as New York means you’re not alone. Well, you’re never alone but there’s others too. If you know how to spot them.

He’s been sleeping in doorways and sneaking food from market stalls – but not begging, whether an innate part of being a one of the Folk or an innate part of himself he did not want or need anyone’s pity – for a few weeks when he sees her. She’s tall, very tall and with the tatters her skirts are in he’s able to see the pale pink of her calves from knee to muddy leather boots. It’s not a normal pink, not like the glimpses of his own cold cheeks in shop windows, but the dusty pink of a rose. Her fingers are the same color as she waves and calls, catching passersby’s eye and gesturing to the basket of flowers on her arm. The violets match her thick, plated hair and the bluebells her bright, solid-colored eyes.

He stops, shocked on the other side of the street, when he sees her. A cart and then trolley pass between them and still he can’t tear his gaze away. She’s smiling at him once the street is clear, wide and kind. The light almost sparks off her pointed teeth. She winks and crooks a long, thin finger to him. He crosses without another thought, barely managing to remember how to even walk before he’s in front of her.

“Hello little one,” she coos, tilting his chin up so he can meet her gaze. Her pink fingers then trail through his hair, straightening it, before running down to brush over his shoulders and tug lightly at his vest. This close he sees that she has small white flowers woven into the braid of her purple hair. They look like stars in a twilight sky and he’s fairly certain they sparkle too.

“Hello, miss,” he manages to reply.

Her grin sharpens. “You’re a polite young man. And that smile! Sweeter than stolen cream.”

At those words he can’t help but preen. “Thank you, miss. I quite like your hair myself. I’ve-” he stumbles, tightening his grip on the crutch under his arm, “I’ve never seen hair that color.”

Eyes widening, she straightens. “My, you’ve not met one of your own before, have you?”

“No, miss,” he shakes his head, hair flopping into his eyes. He reaches up to brush it back but she’s faster. Brushing it away with her rosy fingers again.

“But you know our ways?” She says it like a question but the flash of her eyes makes it a challenge.

He straightens, feeling so proud it borders on smug. “Never give your true name, always be polite, and nothing is a gift.”

Her head tilts and he honestly can’t tell if she’s thrilled or disappointed. Though they both know it’s not all the ways of the Folk, just the important ones. The ones the humans know in order not to err on their bad side. But for a changeling like him, it’s a good start and all true. That’s another thing he knows, the Folk cannot lie.

“Very good little one. You may know, but I doubt you have much practice. Let us strike a bargain, shall we?” Again, her head tilts and more than her long limbs or resemblance to a garden or sunset, this looks the oddest to him. Sets her apart from the humans still buffeting them on the busy street.

“Only be it fair and true,” he replies on instinct. Because, there’s nowhere else it could have possibly sprung from.

Pride and amusement has her spine straightening as she nods. “My proposition is thus; you give me the two buttons from your vest and I shall weave you a crown that will never wilt. That will remind you of who you are.”

He has to think about it, faerie bargains are notoriously tricks meant to cheat the person hapless enough to make one. There are normally catches and clauses. There are twists and double meanings and you always, always lose more than you gain. Yet, this seems simple. Straightforward. And it would be rude to say no.

“A trinket for a trinket,” he says, stalling.

She inclines her head. “A mortal trinket for a faerie trinket. A piece of a life that was and will be again.”

His heart and mind catch on that last bit but to puzzle it out could take all day and he’s getting hungry. He was trying to find food when he saw her in the first place. It’s a risk, but a benign one. “My two buttons for a flower crown woven by you that will never wilt.”

Again, her smile is sharp. But her knife his sharper as she leans forward and cuts the buttons from his vest, hand moving quickly to cup them before they can do more than fall from the fabric. She slips them into the folds of her skirt, her knife disappearing too. Just as quickly she begins to pluck flowers from her basket with her too long, stick thin fingers and begins to weave them into a crown and in a blink it’s on his head.

“May you wear it in good health,” she says and it’s a blessing he didn’t bargain for. His stomach twists and he nods; remembering not to thank her at the last moment. She flashes one last grin as she turns away, her skirts flaring out, and walks down the sidewalk.

He manages to not lose his flower crown as he falls in with a group of satyrs living in Battery Park, though he leaves after a few weeks when he learns the fish they always have for dinner comes straight from the aquarium in the castle. He goes back to sleeping in doorways and on fire escapes after that. He’s hungry all the time but he can never be sure if it’s his nature or his circumstances that cause it.

Eventually, his clothes become too thin and short, showing off his wrists and legs and strips of his stomach. Sleeping on fire escapes has a new bite as the fabric begins to cover less and less and more and more of his skin is exposed to the iron. The worst is how tight his boots have become, pinching and squeezing at his toes. He refuses to go barefoot though, not because of the cold but because it reminds him too much of the others. The women who walk on the breeze and become one with the trees. The men who blink at him before disappearing into shadows and around corners. The beings and creatures who pinch and poke and trick and steal and cackle and dance, dance, dance in between the oblivious crowds.

He finally manages to trade with an immigrant family from the Lower East Side, not feeling sad to hand over the last items his mother gave him in exchange for shoes that are just a hair too big and clothes that keep his skin from the sparking itch of his fire escape beds.

It’s this sleeping arrangement that gets him in trouble. Faeries are meant to be swifter, stronger than humans. But with his crutch he’s not able to outrun the police. A shopkeeper reports him for vagrancy and even his charms aren’t able to keep the police from dragging him to the Refuge.

Another boy, a newsboy, sees this from a little ways down the street. He freezes and his face darkens. His face with its too sharp angles and too bright eyes. The boy is moving before he has the time to process this, making a messy grab for a trinket from a nearby vendor’s cart, dropping his papers in the process. The police notice – everyone on the block notices – and grab him. The boy struggles but it’s a show, he can tell it’s just for show, and soon they’re both being lifted into the wagon.

The trial is short, the other boy cocky, and the warden at the Refuge cruel. At least here he has a bed, a real bed, for the first time in years. The other boy smooth talks his way into getting the one next to him.

“You can call me Jack, Jack Kelly. Though some of the boys call me Cowboy too,” he says with a quicksilver smile.

He raises a skeptical brow, his thoughts catching on the phrasing and the sharp points the boy’s ears come to. Sharp points that match his own.

“You’re like me,” he says instead of giving his name. He knows better than to give anyone his name. He knows Jack certainly isn’t this boy’s.

“Depends on what you mean by that,” Jack says slyly, stretching out on the thin bunk.

“How do you do it?” He asks with genuine curiosity, leaning forward so he can lower his voice and study Jack’s pleasantly bored expression.

Confusion pulls at Jack’s brow. “Do what?”

“Work as a newsboy.” It wasn’t obvious? “They lie all the time to make money.”

The quicksilver is back. “I never lie. I just embellish the truth. Tell a story. The facts are there, just maybe not all the facts. If it weren’t true, I couldn’t say it.” Jack shrugs and it’s an odd motion since he’s laying on his back with his hands propped behind his head. Made odder by the fact that it seems almost graceful. “It’s not so bad. Get to go all over the city and the lodging house means you’ve got a bed if you can afford it.”

He frowns at the non-sequitur. It deepens when he realizes it’s an abrupt topic change. “We’re stuck here and you’re offering me a job?” he can’t keep all the disbelief out of his voice. Even if he hadn’t checked, he could feel that the windows and doors were barred with thick iron rods.

“I’ll be out of here by dawn, question is if you’re coming with me?”

For a solid minute he weighs his options. The Refuge with its coldness and crying children. Jack with his silver tongue and faerie arrogance.

When they manage to sneak out into the courtyard a few hours later they’re met by the boys who helped break the lock and distract the guards. The first causes him to stop, he’s so obviously a sprite that the scowl is the only thing keeping him from laughing. The other is mortal and chomping on an unlit cigar, the scent of which still makes him wrinkle his nose. The four slink out and into an alley before twisting around the block and through another back alley until they’re farther and farther away.

“We’re even now, Kelly,” the sprite finally growls once the sky begins to lighten.

“A deal’s a deal, Spot.” Jack offers his hand, spitting into it first. If he hadn’t already figured the boy was one of the Folk that would have confirmed it. The spit shake marks him as a newsie. Spot turns to him and the mortal, nodding at them both before turning off a side street and disappearing.

“Bell’s gonna ring soon,” the boy says, almost nervous as he bounces on his toes and glances down the street. His eyes dart to where Spot disappeared to, then to him, and finally back to Jack.

“And we’ll be there, right new kid?” Jack raises a brow at him. It’s a taunt.

“Course,” he replies. No bargain was struck, no deal made, but he is in Jack’s debt and they both know it.

Jack nods, smiles, and turns back to the mortal. “Go get in line, Race. Make sure Weasel don’t give us no grief for being late.”

Race, apparently, grins around the cigar and takes off running. Maybe that’s where the nickname comes from.

“You can trust Racetrack,” Jack tells him vaguely as they follow, “he’s good people.”

Or maybe that’s not where the nickname comes from.

In the next few weeks, he learns the ins and outs of selling from Jack. And of “charming folks” though truthfully, it’s just magic. Jack starts calling him “Kid” and the other newsies “Crutchie” and he doesn’t really care because neither are his name and that’s what matters. The night in the Refuge isn’t the first or last Jack spends there, but it is the only one that’s intentional. He works harder to repay Jack who seems less and less inclined to care.

Finally, he feels they’re even when he manages to discover the nook in the corner of the roof of the lodging house. The air is still filled with smoke and iron but not the smell and sounds of mortal boys. He takes careful trips up with bedding and supplies until he feels it’s suitable. Sleeping under the stars just feels _right_ and he can tell Jack agrees by the expression on his face when he sees it.

They grow close. The other newsies learn he can predict the weather with startling accuracy and say it must be thanks to his leg, he never corrects them. They talk as the city chokes them, about going to someplace that’s nothing but stars. The money comes in fits and starts as he grows into his own sharp features. The other Folk avoid him but mortals feel almost compelled to buy his papers. Stories come in across the river of a young newsie rising through the ranks of Brooklyn and ruling with an iron fist. They don’t tell any of the others that the rumors sound an awful lot like the stories of Court drama they hear.

He keeps his own crown in the bag at his hip, as unchanging as the day he received it. Though now, years later and clothes traded and swapped and bought he misses the buttons she took. Misses having something that reminds him of the place he used to believe was home. For even his crutch is different, having long outgrown the original.

They’re teenagers too soon, a blink in their long lifetimes. With it comes something they don’t expect, an odd almost awed respect from the others. Except Race but he never counted. He’s tied up in Brooklyn as a rule and so is exempt. They never sought the power they seemingly have, power different than that which they were born with, and they discover it in the most dramatic way.

It starts with a raise in prices. A raise which isn’t fair, and they of all people would know. Jack is outraged, he is angry too but in a colder way.

The new boy, the one who either didn’t heed the stories of the old world or else his family hadn’t passed them on – and that did happen as people sought to keep the good and leave the monsters behind when they came to America and never would they imagine to find so many pretty ones in the center of the city – and offers his name as though it was on a platter. Even his little brother gives a nickname. But Jack had been kind and called him Davey and the others had too, much to Davey’s unknowing chagrin.

The new boy, Davey, matches Jack in his heat, at least momentarily, offering the spark to Jack’s powder and unknowingly unleashing that power.

When Jack says they should strike, they strike.

He finally understands the appeal of the Courts for the first time.

“Do you think she’s really going to show up tomorrow?” he asks that night on the rooftop, head still spinning from the rush of their decision. The thrill had dampened slightly after Jack told him of Spot’s reluctance to join them. Understandable, why would he want to risk losing the grip he kept on the tight leash he had over Brooklyn? And he didn’t owe Jack anymore. But this was as much for them as for the mortals. Righting a wrong against oneself was practically faerie law. Though the girl reporter was an intriguing thought and a twist even he hadn’t seen coming.

“I think so,” he can hear Jack’s smirk in the dark. “She told me her name was Katherine Plumber.”

“Really?” He’s surprised, the way she’d eyed him he thought she’d know better.

“Least it’s the name she publishes under,” Jack is almost proud.

“Clever,” he says happily.

“Too bad your charm doesn’t work in print,” Jack teases.

“I don’t need glamour to be charming. The smile’s just icing.”

Jack laughs, the sound floating up over the rooftops. “Good thing she’s bringing a camera.”

He grins up at the stars.

Like any war there are casualties. Unfortunately, he is one of them. Being back in the Refuge again is hard. The time stretches and shrinks in ways he never imagined possible and somehow he knows decades, centuries later he will look back on this and still wonder. The scent of iron is so heavy it’s dizzying and the press of bodies so close it makes everything seem small. These mortals with iron in their blood and salt on their skin surrounding him on all sides. He has the crown, somehow he has the crown. His crown. It marks him as other and for a time, some measure of time, he feels even more alone. So different from these humans serving penance without crime with him.

He takes it out one night, straining to see the pale petals in the paler light of the moon when that changes. The crown proves he is not alone. The faerie woman, the flower seller, took what was never his to begin with and gave him his true home. His first taste of community. Of finding others like himself. Of finding Jack with his silver tongue and smile. Of the newsies of Lower Manhattan with their bright spirits and easy laughs in the face of the City. Of righteous Davey and mischievous Les and clever Kath. Even of Spot and his politics and power games. He found his birthright in the world he was forsaken to and that realization rekindles something within, twisting the crown in his hands.

He feels less alone, turning his charm back on as the sun rises. Knowing that he is just one of hundreds here in the Refuge feeling like this. Uses his charm to learn that there are some who can get messages in and out. Others who can get him supplies. And in the night, despite complaints from his fellows for the candlelight, he writes to Jack urging him to not let his own fire go out.

He knows they’ll win, has never been in doubt of it. Jack said they would and Jack can’t lie. But he knows Jack, and knows that not being able to tell a lie does not mean you can’t lie to yourself. So, he writes and hopes that it gets to Jack in time.

The time slips and spins and he sleeps and waits and imagines and remembers and nearly misses a name being called. A name that was never really his but he took before he could talk and he hasn’t heard in so long he’d honestly almost forgotten it. The others part for him as he carefully makes his way to the stairs that will lead him to the ground floor and the door out of this place. He is thankful for his faerie grace as he moves with so many eyes on him, his crutch catching on the uneven floorboards but he walks with his head high. Walks right out the door. He’s not the only one to do so, but he is the first.

Relishing in the ability to breath in the wind again, he rides in the governor’s open topped carriage taking in lungfuls of it. Even when it carries the stale scent of trash and the river. His smile is so wide it almost hurts and he nearly forgets to smooth the points his teeth have grown into with the giddiness humming like magic under his skin. The people on the street stare to see such a grubby looking boy riding alone in such finery and he lets them, waving a bit and laughing to think that all this was done just for him. There’s a strange metaphor all tied up in it somewhere. A riddle he’ll spend the time puzzling out later. Right now he just breathes.

Seeing the crowd turn at the sound of hooves and whistles and the governor’s gesturing sends his heart speeding. He accepts the excitement buzzing throughout it and between his ears as some of the boys rush the carriage, holding out hands in silent offers to help him down. For once, he accepts. Jack’s grinning up on the small stage above the door to _The World_ – another twisted metaphor for another time – but he quirks a brow too. Knowing he only allows this because so much focus has passed on to question about the police wagon that has followed behind him the whole way.

He makes a face at Jack in silent response before letting his own pride takeover. He spins and gestures to the wagon where police officers are herding out a man. Herding out the man who runs the Refuge. Who ran the Refuge. He can almost feel his excitement pricking at his fingers in the same way iron does as the governor agrees to let him do the honors. The feeling overpowers the actual feel of the iron manacles as he clamps them on the man’s wrist, letting his glamor slip and his smile turn cruel for just a blink in the process.

The celebrating ends sooner than expected, though that isn’t entirely true. Despite the newsies lining up and taking their papers, they all still chatter and cheer. Bubbling up and over at their win. Jack is talking with Spot, Davey, and Kath when he comes over after getting his own stack for the morning. Spot gives him a significant nod before spit shaking hands all around and heading off with his lieutenants. Racetrack trailing behind. It’s an odd mirror of their first meeting and he brushes the thought away as another problem for another time.

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” Kath says as she hugs him. He’s come to realize that she’s special in more ways than one. Her possession of the Sight just part of a larger enigma. Her willingness to pull him into her and easy offers of friendship another. He doesn’t argue though, squeezing her right back.

Davey offers a hand to shake once she frees him and a cautious smile. The caution has nothing to do with him though and everything to do with Davey’s own contradiction filled nature. “You were missed,” he says earnestly. Swatting at his little brother who begins babbling exactly how missed he was.

“So, how was the ride?” Jack slings an arm over his shoulders, wide smile as he pulls him in tight to his side.

“You struck a bargain,” he almost hisses through his own smile clenched teeth.

“We came to an agreement.” He feels more than sees Jack’s shrug.

“It was two deals,” Davey corrects with a stern turn to his mouth and a flash in his eyes. “Jack made two deals with Pulitzer.”

He pulls away, brushing off Jack’s hold. He stares hard at the other boy. Dares him to say something and damn himself. Say nothing and damn himself even further.

“The first was a deal only we could make,” Jack says smoothly. He doesn’t blink and his sharp features become sharper with the seriousness that overtakes him. He understands immediately. It was hard. It was cruel. And it doesn’t matter what exactly it was and who gave what because in the end Jack walked away with what mattered most.

“And the second?” he prompts.

Jack shrugs again, shares a glance with the others, and smirks. “We won.”

Truthfully, he should have expected that. He rolls his eyes. Later, under the stars and the smoke, breathing in as little iron as they can he’ll ask again. He’ll find out what he did to convince Spot. What the terms of the bargain were. Of both bargains. And whether Jack was going to tell Davey their true nature, since there was no point in telling Kath. They have all the time in the world to leave the city and see the stars. These people they’ve turned into a home have only a lifetime and he’s already decided that he’s going to make the most of it.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Inspired/influenced heavily by Holly Black's Modern Faerie Tales and Folk of the Air trilogies specifically Tithe and The Darkest Part of the Forest. Additional changeling influence can be chalked up to The Replacement by Breanna Yovanoff parts of which have literally stuck with me for years. Other excellent Fae Court books are the Court of Thorns and Roses trilogy by Sarah J Maas.  
> \- Yes, the Castle in the Battery really was an aquarium in the late 1800s.   
> \- Title comes from the song [Table Song by Katie Kuffel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwzuWwaltRc) which I became mildly obsessed with while writing this even though initially it was meant to be [Grenadine by Dreadlight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4yQagdH7Sk) because the vibes are Holly Black's Folk vibes and what I THOUGHT I was shooting for but the Table Song lyric fits so much better and the song just feels right.


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